


The Slytherin Effect

by hanneo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Good Slytherins, Head Girl Hermione Granger, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Smut, dramione - Freeform, well kind of good slytherins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanneo/pseuds/hanneo
Summary: Hermione did not expect to begin her Eighth year by saving Draco Malfoy from an attack, but she supposed it wasn't the least likely thing to ever happen.Though the war is over, it's horrors remain. Memories and fears haunt Hermoine at every crook and turn, but she's determined to convince everyone she's still the brave Gryffindor she once was. But with the death eaters in Azkaban and Voldemort dead, the students of Hogwarts have picked a new enemy to defend themselves against the Slytherin House. As Head Girl, it's Hermoine's job to put an end to the animosity, and if that means she has to pretend to be friends with Draco Malfoy, then that's exactly what she'll do.But the more time Hermoine spends with him, the more she realized that he, too, is plagued by demons from the war. Though he still has his snake-like tongue, he's not quite the boy Hermoine remembers. And he makes it easier for her to come to terms with the fact that she isn't the same girl, either.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 15
Kudos: 128





	1. Head Girl

Though the war was over, the fighting was not. Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if it was a repercussion of the battle itself, if fighting had become so normal that no one knew how to act without some kind of turmoil. Voldemort was dead, the death eaters imprisoned, and without an enemy to brawl, the students had picked a rival out of themselves. 

Hermione knew that the entirety of Slytherin house could not be blamed for the faults of a few, and she was sure that there were others who felt the same, but the majority thought otherwise. The school year had only been in session for a month, and yet Hermione couldn’t count on all her fingers the number of times she’d had to stop some kind of scrimmage in the halls.

She was a Head Girl now, and that was her job. No matter how many times people called her a snake-hugger, whatever that was supposed to mean. 

Third period had just ended when Hermione stumbled through the corridors, the sound of footsteps echoing across the walls. There was something different about the castle now, though she couldn’t quite decide what it was. The repairs had been extensive, it’d taken months to put everything back together after the battle, but everything now looked exactly as it had before. 

But every now and then, Hermione would stumble across a stray piece of stone on the ground, or find a speck of glass beneath a window, and it was all too easy to remember where it came from. The memories of that day were often too much to bear.

While most of everyone else was making their way to the quad or their common rooms, Hermione was going to the library. Early that year, Hermione had made herself a schedule for how she would spend her days, jotting down times and classes until nearly every minute was full, and she was determined to keep it. She spent most afternoons studying in the library, a place she’d long since realized most of the other students avoided like the plague. 

Before the school year had started, Hermione had thought everything would go back to exactly how it’d been before the war had started. When students crammed their noses into books and prayed for passing marks on quizzes and projects. She was blissfully disappointed when everyone came back and proved her wrong. 

No one else seemed to want that normal back. It was as though they were riding the high of winning a war, even if it’d been months since it officially ended. Students socialized in common rooms until the early hours of the morning, others drank themselves to stupor in the shadows of moonlit corridors, and no one really cared about classes. Even the professors seemed to be turning blind eyes to the chaos of it all. 

Hermione supposed it made sense, in a way. Everyone had been forced to grow up very quickly, risking life and limb in those final days of the battle. She knew many of them hadn’t expected to survive the turmoil; she herself had had more than a few moments where she thought it was the end. No one really knew what to do with themselves now; it was as though they were characters in a book that was meant to end, but went on instead. 

She wasn’t surprised to find the library empty, and Hermione quickly settled into one of the tables nearest to the door. Once, this had been a place that made her happy, the scent of pressed pages and old ink had calmed her more than anything else. Now it felt eerie, and the fact that she was alone with only the sound of her heartbeat and breathing to fill the space didn’t help. 

She often thought about avoiding the library, like so many of the others. She could study just as well in the girl’s dormitory as she could there, but then it would feel like a defeat. The war had taken much from her. It’d plucked the hope and courage right out of her heart, and Hermione wasn’t quite sure what they left her with. There were things that scared her now that were so stupid and foolish that she couldn’t entirely believe it, and yet there was nothing she could do to ease her fears. 

So she forced herself to go to the library, alone, and ignore the constant racing of her heart in her chest. She told herself it would get better; that one day she would wake up, and everything would be fine again. She would no longer fear empty hallways and wonder what might lurk in the shadows; she wouldn’t jump at sudden loud noises or fiddle with her thumbs in the quad. She wouldn’t panic at the first glimpse of a girl with curly black hair. 

The moment Hermione opened her books, leering over the table to look down at the words, she forgot her fears. It was always like that; as long as she was focussing on something, like school or texts or the knitting she’d taken up over the summer, she forgot everything else. Ron and Harry didn’t understand it; they didn’t get why she scheduled her time and kept herself so busy. All three of them had their own ghosts to face after the war, but they’d managed them in different ways. 

Ron hadn’t come back for the eighth year, and Hermione couldn’t say she blamed him. Once, he’d wanted to be an Auror alongside Harry, to work at the Ministry and help protect people from the Dark Arts. But that was before Fred died, and his priorities shifted. Now, he worked at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes alongside George. 

Hermione was grateful that Harry, at least, had decided to come back. While the war had taken the dream of being an Auror from Ron, it had only seemed to push Harry forward. 

Hermione, herself, wasn’t quite sure where she would go after graduation. She’d thought of dozens of different fields and careers she could entertain, but not one of them seemed better than the others. 

She stayed in the library right up until supper, and though she still had another chapter to review for her notes, Hermione gathered her things and stepped out into the hall. Harry would worry if she didn’t show, as he always did. Hermione loved him dearly, but sometimes he could be just as overbearing as a mother hen. 

It wasn’t until she’d neared the end of the corridor, where it forked left and right, that she heard the first sounds of a scuffle. Sneakers squeaked against the stone floor, and someone grunted as another person coughed. Hermione let out a sigh and squared her shoulders, something she always did in order to look a little bigger. As though being a few inches taller would make her seem more authoritative. 

The first thing she saw when she rounded the corner was the flurry of robes, black fabric swinging out with quick movement. Hermione’s heart thudded in her chest for a reason she couldn’t explain; she wasn’t in danger, it wasn’t her being attacked. And yet she felt fear, and it made her feel like a coward. 

She gripped her wand in her palm so tightly her knuckles turned white, but she didn’t raise it. There were four boys standing before her; three of them with a blue tint to their robes collar, and the fourth hunched over on the other side of them. She couldn’t see his face, or anything other than near-white hair bent over the ground. She cleared her throat. “Stop it. This is against the rules, I’m sure you know.” 

“Ranger Granger, here to ruin our fun,” one of them said. Though Hermione wasn’t sure of his name, she recognized his face and the pink scar that crossed his temple. He’d fought in the battle of Hogwarts, she realized, a memory of him standing in the quad flashing before her eyes. 

The vision of flashing spells and blood made her flinch, and Hermione willed it away just as quickly as it’d come. Her eyes narrowed, and she hoped the glare would make up for however weak her wince had made her seem. “50 points from Ravenclaw, and detention for the rest of the week.”

“He’s fine,” the boy spoke again. “We were just having a little fun, Ranger. No harm, no foul.” 

“Unfortunately for you, that’s not your call to make,” Hermione said. “Go on now, or I’ll take another fifty points from your house just for the fun of it.” 

The three Ravenclaws scowled, but they quickly scattered off. Hermione watched them for a moment longer than she had to, listening to their laughs as they turned the corner towards the Great Hall. 

When Hermione finally looked back at the boy they’d left behind, she jumped. Draco Malfoy was leaning back against the wall, still sitting hunched on the floor. He stared at her as though she were an annoyance. His sharp eyes, filled with hues of blue and silver, made her want to squirm under the scrutiny. 

“You’re probably the last person I expected to see taken down by a couple of Ravenclaws,” Hermione said, if only to fill the silence with something other than their respective glares. 

He laughed, but the sound was dry and humorless. Hermione’s eyes danced over the red splotch on his cheek, and she wondered whether it was the fault of a fist or a spell. 

Malfoy stood, pushing up off the floor without any apparent difficulty, until he towered over her with a height that made her feel small. This was probably the most disheveled Hermione had ever seen him; Malfoy always seemed to be proper to the point of infuriation. But now his hair was all kinds of unkempt, and his robes were crumpled and torn at the collar. 

He looked towards the ceiling and sighed, and the sound made Hermione want to scream. She’d saved him, for Merlin’s sake. How could he still be so arrogant, even then? 

“I was fine on my own, Granger.” He said, simply. Hermione blinked at the sound of his voice. There was no hint of the snotty tone she was used to from him, only a deep chagrin. 

Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to him, not exactly. She supposed it must have been sometime in their seventh year, but she couldn’t recall any exact moment. Since school started anew, Hermione had passed him in the halls several times, and they shared exactly one class together that semester, though she didn’t think she’d ever seen him sit anywhere other than the very back of the room, almost like he didn’t want to be seen at all. 

Over the summer months, Hermione had only seen him once, when she’d testified on his behalf at his trial. The memory of him there was ingrained in her mind, vivid enough that it felt like no time had passed since she’d looked across the courtroom and met his stare. He’d been tied to a chair, and she’d pitied him. 

“Do you need help?” Hermione asked, suddenly. The words tumbled from her lips before she even had the chance to think them over, and she wasn’t sure who was more surprised to hear them. 

Malfoy blinked down at her, once, twice, and then he walked away without a word. As his footsteps sounded behind her, walking back in the direction of the dorms instead of supper, Hermione’s frowned at the empty space where he’d just stood. 

She’d been wide open there, she thought to herself. Even she could think of a hundred different retorts and insults he could have flung her way.  
_Help from a Mudblood? I’d rather die.  
And risk being infected with some kind of muggle disease? _

Malfoy had always been mean, to the point that Hermione often figured it was somehow instilled in his blood. She couldn’t think of a single moment where, given the chance to put someone down, he’d stayed quiet. So why had he now?


	2. Saturday

Hermione hated Saturdays. There were no classes to attend, for one, and there always seemed to be a party or some kind of gathering that someone wanted to drag her to. Hermione had never been one for those kinds of things, but between Harry and Ginny each trying to drag her along, it was a wonder she was ever able to avoid them. 

There were few good things that had come out of Hermione’s relationship with Ron. They’d lasted for all of a month after the war ended, and when the time came to end it, they both knew it was for the best. The battles had changed them both just enough that they didn’t work together any longer, not like they once had. It’d been a month full of fighting and misunderstandings, and eventually, they realized relationships weren’t meant to take as much effort as theirs seemed to. 

Ginny had first approached Hermione under the pretense they would one day become sisters. And though she’d first been sad to hear that Hermione and Ron had ended things, she’d apparently decided that didn’t mean they couldn’t be sisters still. Hermione was grateful for that; it was nice to have a friend who, well, wasn’t a boy. 

Of course, Ginny had a few ulterior motives, not that Hermione minded much. When it came to alcohol, Harry had sworn he wouldn’t buy it for her; not for the parties or anything else, despite the fact he was old enough to, like almost all of the other eighth years. He didn’t want to risk Molly Weasley’s wrath and opinion of him by buying her daughter a bottle of fire whisky, and Hermione supposed she could understand that. For Harry, Ginny was forever, and he didn’t want anything to threaten that. 

Hermione, however, was not nearly as afraid of Molly. She imagined that should Molly find out, it would probably fall more on Ginny’s shoulders than her own. And so when Ginny had come up to Hermione’s bed that morning and asked if she would go into town for her, Hermione hadn’t been at all opposed. 

“As long as you don’t drink it all tonight,” Hermione told her as the pair of them walked down the stone path towards Hogsmeade. Trees flanked them on either side in dull shades of brown and muted green. They were quickly approaching winter, and Hermione could only hope the snow wouldn’t fall as heavily as it had the year before. She hated the cold. 

“I solemnly swear I will not drink myself to stupor,” Ginny told her, laughing lightly. Even a year younger, Ginny was a good few inches taller than Hermione. It must’ve been passed through the genes, Hermione thought, seeing as all of the Weasley children seemed to be just as tall. 

“Is Harry going with you tonight?” Hermione asked, gripping the edges of her cloak tighter around her body. Every now and then, a gust of wind would drift by them and Hermione’s skin would shiver. 

Ginny looked over at her suddenly, an accusation in her eyes, “Yes, just like you are.”

Hermione groaned, “I told you I’d buy you fire whiskey not that I’d go. You know I hate those parties-- not to mention the fact that they _are_ against the rules.” 

“That may be, but we both know the professors are being more lenient this year,” Ginny countered, and Hermione had no argument for that. Even McGonagall, it seemed, was going easy on the students. Hermione couldn't recall any other time in history when the professor, now headmistress, had been anything but rule-abiding. “And you need to have fun, Hermione. Get your nose out of those books every now and then.” 

“I do have fun,” Hermione frowned. “I have fun with my nose in those books, thank you very much.” 

“It’s not the same thing, and you know it.” Ginny said. Hermione sighed and said nothing more. She knew that it didn’t matter how many times Hermione told Ginny she didn’t want to; if it came down to it, Ginny would send Harry to convince her, and Hermione could almost never say no to him. It made her feel guilty whenever she did. 

Up ahead, Hermione could see the bridge that led to the village. There were a number of students walking ahead of them, probably looking for a break from the castle after a long week of class. It was a sea of black cloaks, but as Hermione looked closer, she couldn’t help but frown. Out of all of the colored collars, she didn’t see a single green one. There were no Slytherins on their way into town, and Hermione had been at Hogwarts long enough to know that was strange. They always seemed to be the first people to escape the castle walls whenever time allowed it.

Hermione opened her mouth, ready to ask Ginny if she’d noticed the bitterness between the houses, but Ginny was speaking before she had the chance. 

“Have you spoken to Ron lately?” Ginny asked her, and Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the question. 

She thought about it and frowned, “Not lately. I wrote to him back at the beginning of the school year, but I don’t think I have since then. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” Ginny said, shrugging. “He doesn’t talk to Harry much, either. I’m worried, I guess. I don’t want him to close himself off, you know?” 

“Ron’s always been forgetful,” Hermione reasoned. “He probably just hasn’t thought about it much. I remember him telling me the shop was busy, he might just be tied up with work.” 

“Perhaps,” Ginny said, though she didn’t sound overly convinced. 

Hermione pursed her lips, “I’ll write to him when we get back to the castle. I’ve been meaning to, anyway.” 

“Thank you,” Ginny said, but the words were a little happier than Hermione had thought appropriate. 

After a minute passed, Hermione’s steps slowed to a stop, and she frowned. “What are you up to, Ginny Weasley?”

Ginny blinked at her, all stars and confusion, “Nothing, why would you think I’m up to something?”

“You have that look on your face,” Hermione said, because she did. It was feigned innocence if she had ever seen it. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she thought, and then she let out a gasp. “Please tell me you’re not hoping Ron and I will get back together?”

The redhead swallowed, her eyes darting downwards so as to avoid Hermoine's. “Now why would you think that?” 

“Because it’s exactly like you.” Hermione countered. She was sure of it now; in true Weasley fashion, Ginny had a horrible poker face. “I love you Ginny, but you don’t know when to keep your nose out of other people’s business.”

“But it is my business!” Ginny said, a little louder than normal. She coughed as though it would reset the volume of her voice. “Well, kind of. He’s my brother, and you’re my closest friend. That makes it partially my business.” 

“It really doesn’t,” Hermione said. “And Ron and I… We just don’t work like that. We’re better off as friends, you know that. I lived at the burrow for nearly a month, and you were there to listen to every one of our squabbles. It was horrible.”

“But that was so long ago now,” Ginny argued. “Maybe things will be different this time around?” 

“No,” Hermione said, shaking her head. 

There was no part of her that could see Ron as anything other than a friend, not anymore. She had changed too much, so much in fact that she wasn’t even sure she recognized herself. Ginny didn’t understand that, and how could she? They hadn’t been close before the war, so Ginny didn’t know what Hermione had been like back then. She had no memories of Hermione to compare her to, and Hermione had never once considered telling her about it. It felt too personal, too self-reflective, even amongst friends. 

There was at least one thing about Hermione that had remained constant, and that was her penchant for secrets, especially when it came to her own feelings. She’d never told Ginny, or Harry or Ron, the things that plagued her now. There were so many fears that she kept to herself, because she couldn’t imagine ever voicing them out loud. 

They didn’t know that she was afraid of the corridors in the evening, just like they didn’t know that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten a full night’s sleep. Nightmares were a disease of their own, she often thought, and she’d been sick with them since the first day Hogwarts had fallen. She never slept for longer than an hour at a time, and even after that, it was always a struggle to fall back to sleep. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw faces. 

She saw the faces of people who had once been friends and were no longer, but more than that, she saw the faces of the men and women who had fought on the other side. She saw death eaters behind her eyelids more often than she saw darkness. 

Ginny waited outside the shop while Hermione went in, grabbing two of the first amber-colored bottles she saw and moving to stand in line by the counter. If Ginny was going to force her to go out, then Hermione figured she ought to at least give it a try. 

It was busier than she’d hoped, but she wasn’t all that surprised. Ginny said the party was being thrown in the room of requirement, which meant anyone could go, no matter the house. Hermione couldn’t say she was shocked the room had allowed itself to be used for such a purpose; she’d heard more than one story about the kinds of things students had used it for since Harry had first found it years before. 

As Hermione stood there, her eyes wandered over the shelves, glimpsing the snacks and merchandise the shop sold. A photo of Harry caught her eye, and Hermione squinted to get a better look at the framed image, which hung just over a rack of chocolate assortments. It was an old photo, taken sometime in their first or second year. From the looks of this one, it had been cut out of the front page of one of the papers and thrown on display as if to say “Harry Potter shops here, you should too”. 

His photo was everywhere, nowadays. Every now and then, Hermione would find a photo of herself and Ron somewhere too, hanging on a wall or plastered to a window. The Golden Trio, the papers had dubbed them. Hermione hated that name, just as much as she hated seeing her face in windows she’d never before seen. 

It was easy for others to forget that none of them had ever asked to be known. Hermione would much rather fade into the dust and be forgotten, if only so she wouldn’t feel like she was letting people down. They’d helped win a war, they’d destroyed all the Horcruxes, and Hermione had no idea what she was supposed to do with herself now that it was done. 

There were expectations that came with those photos. Questions of where she was now, and where she would go. Hermione hated thinking about her future almost as much as she hated the fact that others thought about it, too. That there were people out there, strangers to her, who were reading the papers and wondering where Hermione would be in ten years. 

Part of her wanted to drop off the face of the earth, because she truly couldn't see any other way to get rid of the expectance. That, and some curious part of her just wanted to see how people would react. To see what the wizarding world would do if the brightest witch of her age just up and disappeared. She knew that, compared to Harry, and maybe even Ron, Hermione was hardly important. She was intelligent, yes, and good with spells, but what else? Sometimes she wasn't sure there was anything else at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for giving this story a chance, it's my first post on AO3 so I'm still kind of learning how everything works. I'm used to other platforms, but I'm quickly realizing this is very, very different. 
> 
> I'd ask that if any of you find any mistakes, either typos or factual, please let me know! I'd like to believe I'm rather meticulous with my editing and fact-checking, but everyone has to make a mistake here and there. 
> 
> Thanks again, and happy reading :)


	3. Pansy

It was barely ten-thirty in the evening, and Hermione was already done with the night.

Ginny and Harry had long since left to find some corner of the room and be alone, and Hermione had no interest in seeking them out. She was still emotionally scarred from the last time she did that, walking into the girl’s dorm room just in time to see Ginny’s shirt hit the floor. 

So, left to her own devices, Hermione was sitting on one of the couches conjured in the room of requirement, surrounded by many of the eighth year students she knew as friends. Luna was just to her right, staring off into the empty space of the room as though there was something there that Hermione couldn’t see. Harry often said Luna wasn’t crazy; that she truly could just see and deduce things others could not, but Hermione had never been sure. 

She swallowed the last of the drink in her hand, wincing at the burn it left as it slid down her throat. Hermione had never been a big drinker, but she didn’t want to be looked down on by the others. None of them had ever said it, not to her face anyway, but she knew many of them thought she was prudish and straitlaced, and she hated those labels. 

The fire whiskey left her belly warm, just enough that Hermione felt a little uncomfortable. Her head felt lighter than it had when she’d first arrived, as though all of her weight had settled into her feet instead. 

She sat there for five minutes, listening to the others gossip about which students were dating and which weren’t before she’d finally decided enough was enough. Without a word of goodbye, she stood and stumbled back into the hall. Only Luna had seen her walk off, and she’d offered her a small smile and a wave before the door shut behind her. 

Hermione sighed. The annoyance she felt with Harry and Ginny for dragging her there only to leave her alone was amplified by the little she’d drank. She knew that, come morning, she wouldn’t care anymore. The two of them would have likely forgotten they ever did left her by then as well. 

The corridors were quiet as Hermione walked through them, holding her arms around her middle with one hand resting at the end of her wand. It was all too easy for her mind to wander when she was alone like this, ghosts of the past creeping up on her like spiders. 

With every turn she made, Hermione saw what that hall once looked like, covered in rubble and blood and scattered with the bodies of the fallen. The worst one, she’d long since learned, was the Great Hall, where she never failed to see the white sheets lined up by the walls, covering the battered faces that lay lifeless beneath them.

It had taken months for the repairs to be done, and Hermione had been at Hogwarts for all of them. Most of everyone else had gone home for the summer following the battle, and Hermione had spent that first little while at the Burrow with Ron, but when they’d broken up she realized she didn’t have a home to go to. Her parents didn't know she existed, and the house she'd grown up in had a for sale sign on the front lawn.

It had taken nothing to convince McGonagall to let Hermione move into the castle early. The dorms and common rooms were one of the few places left mostly untouched, and all it had taken was a few days and a few spells for Hermione to put everything in order. She’d spent the rest of the days wandering the halls with the professors and volunteers, putting each room back together one reparo at a time. 

But even after all that had finished, it didn’t feel the same. There were echoes of what had happened everywhere she looked, reminders of a day she wanted so badly to forget. Those were the memories that haunted her at night, the screams that jolted her out of sleep breathless and wide awake. 

Hermione had almost made it to the stairs when she heard the sound of voices yelling out, the abruptness of them making her jump. The first of them was a girl, stringing out a range of curses and swears that were enough to make Hermione blush furiously red. It was quickly followed by a coarse and humorless laugh. Hermoine didn't have to check to know something was wrong; the wariness hit her much like she imagined a bus might. 

For a split second, Hermione wanted to continue up the corridor and onto the stairs, pretending she hadn’t heard. Her heart was already beating so fast from the walk over, she wasn’t sure how much more she could take in one evening. But her conscience got the better of her, knowing that she was Head Girl and most of the prefects were back in the room of requirement. 

With a hard swallow, Hermione turned and followed the voices, moving quicker when the girl let out a strangled yelp. From around the corner, Hermione saw a flash of blue magic, and she broke into a run. 

Pansy Parkinson was kneeling on the ground, her wand gripped in a fist and her features twisted harshly. There were two Gryffindors standing across from her, both of them with their wands ready. Hermione got there just in time to watch one of them call stupify and send Parkinson reeling backward, right into the stone wall. 

Hermione pulled her wand from her pocket, “Stop!” 

The word caused both of the boys to turn towards her, and Hermione quickly recognized them. She frowned, “Vern, Horris, that’s 100 points from Gryffindor and a visit to McGonagall. She might go easy on you if you tell her about this before I do.” 

“Parkinson deserved it!” One of them called, his voice almost too nasally for her to stand. Hermione could only hope they didn’t notice how her legs seemed to wobble, the fault of the firewhisky that was coursing through her bloodstream. Of all the nights for this to happen, it had to be on one that she’d been drinking. 

“I very much doubt it,” Hermione grumbled, seeing as their of them had a single mark on them. She flicked her wand as though it were a threat. She supposed it was, in a way. “I’ll be speaking to the headmistress in the morning, whether you’ve gone to see her or not.” 

The boys spared one last glance towards Parkinson’s crumbled form, where her arms twitched lightly as she begun to wake up, and then sauntered past Hermione towards the dorms. 

Hermione sighed, tucking her wand back into the band of her skirt and stepping forward. Parkinson pushed herself up so she was sitting, eyes blinking without fixing on anything in particular. 

“I’ll take you to the infirmary,” Hermione offered, biting her lip as she prayed Parkinson wouldn't snap at her for the offer.

For a moment, the witch looked like she would. She frowned at Hermione as though it’d been her who cast the spell. “I don’t need to go to the infirmary.”

“Are you sure?” Hermione pressed. “You hit the wall fairly hard.” 

“I’m fine,” Pansy said, her teeth gritting. She reached her hand up and shook it in Hermione’s direction.

It took her a second longer than it should have for Hermione to realize she needed help getting up. She reached over and pulled Pansy to her feet, stumbling back just as soon as the witch was upright. Her feet seemed to be working on a mind of their own, not quite moving exactly how Hermione wanted. She frowned down at them as though it would fix the problem.

Pansy rubbed a palm over her temple, watching Hermione’s silent exchange with herself and barking out a laugh, “You’re pissed, aren’t you?”

“Surely not,” Hermione said, blinking twice more than necessary. She felt her head sway to the side, falling just a little before her neck moved it back into place. If that wasn’t a giveaway, she wasn’t sure what was. “Maybe a little.” 

Pansy laughed again, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “I didn’t think you drank. It feels like a juxtaposition.” 

“Hearing you use big words feels like a juxtaposition,” Hermione grumbled.

“Gryffindors have claws, who knew?” Pansy said, though she was smiling while she did. Hermione watched her stretch her arms out and wince, rubbing at her shoulder. “Well, thanks for the save, Granger. Hopefully I won’t ever need to say those words again.” 

“Does this happen a lot?” Hermione asked before Pansy could turn away. The words came out rushed, and a little louder than she’d meant for them to be. “Slytherins getting cornered in the corridors, I mean.”

Pansy paused, looking over at Hermione with a curious look in her eyes. Her face was fixed in a way that made Hermione think she was being studied. It felt like ages had passed before Pansy finally came to a decision on whatever thought she’d been weighing. “A lot of people seem to think that the Slytherin house played a bigger role in the war than they did. I’m not saying no one made any mistakes, I know I did, as did others, but…” 

“But they’re playing court, judge and sentence all on their own.” Hermione finished, nodding lightly. The fire whiskey swirled in her stomach, a mix of the drink and her own unease. “I’ll talk to McGonagall about it. Hopefully everyone will move on soon enough.” 

“Right,” Pansy snorted. Another beat passed before she swallowed. “Well, as fun as it is talking to you, Granger, I’ve got things to do. Curses to cast, potions to brew, I’ll come up with something.” 

Hermione couldn’t help the twitch of her lips as Pancy walked off, a limp in every step she took. 

It was a while before Hermione finally tucked her wand away and started back towards the dorms, and only then did it hit her in full force what had occurred. If someone had told her two years ago that she’d save Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy both in a period of 48 hours, she would have laughed and called them bonkers.


	4. Beginning

It was barely eleven the next morning when Hermione knocked on the headmistress’ office, her knuckles bouncing back against the oak door. She felt the reverberations of the movement in her head, which was pounding something ferocious against her brain. The first thing she’d done that morning was drink a litre of water, and it’d done absolutely nothing against the ache. 

“Enter,” McGonagall called, and the door swung open with the word. 

The headmistress was sitting behind her desk, her glasses hanging low on her nose as she peered down at a paper before her. She looked up at Hermione as she walked into the room, and a smile settled onto her face. 

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, settling back against her chair. As always, her hat was sitting perfectly over her hair. Hermione often thought it was strange that it never seemed to be off-placed, no matter which way the headmistress' head was turned. “What can I do for you this morning?” 

Hermione fell onto one of the chairs across from her and dropped her hands idly on her lap. She hoped the hangover she was nursing wasn’t too obvious; the professors might be being lenient, but she wasn’t sure just how the headmistress might react to a hungover Head Girl. Hermione might have been of age, but she was still a student. 

She cleared her throat, “I don’t suppose you were visited by a pair of Gryffindor boys this morning? I believe their last names were Vern and Horris.”

McGonagall shook her head, and Hermione let out a sigh before she continued, “I ran into them late last evening, just outside of the stairwell. They’d attacked Pansy Parkinson with their wands. I took a hundred points from Gryffindor for the infraction, but I figured you’d like to know.” 

Some of the events of the night were hazy in Hermione's mind, just enough that she was sure she was missing a few seconds here and there. But she hadn't been nearly drunk enough to forget the promise she'd made the boy. She was disappointed they hadn't taken her warning seriously; she really had thought McGonagall would go easier on them should they have told her themselves. 

Hermione watched as the older witch let out a deep breath, her fingers going up to rub at her left temple. “Is this the first incident you’ve seen this week?”

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “I witnessed the same kind of thing a day before with Draco Malfoy and a few Ravenclaw boys, though there was no magic involved in that.”

“I see,” McGonagall murmured. 

Even though it wasn’t Hermione who was at fault, she found herself shifting uncomfortably in her chair. There was something unnerving about being seated in the headmistress’s office, no matter that it’d been McGonagall herself who’d chosen Hermione as Head Girl. 

“I’ve noticed the other houses behaving oddly towards the Slytherins, but I can’t say I expected much else this year,” McGonagall said, quieting soon after. Hermione wondered whether she was remembering that moment in the Great Hall, when she’d sent the entirety of Slytherin house to the dungeons. When she, herself, had sentenced an entire house to punishment for the troubled remarks of a few. Granted, it'd happened right in the middle of a turning point in the war, but Hermione couldn't ignore the similarities. 

Hermione stayed silent, waiting for the headmistress to say something else before she spoke up. There’d been no question asked, and she wasn’t quite sure what to say. 

“I’ve been trying to think of a way to remedy it over the past few weeks, but I can’t say I believe there’s anything we professors can do,” McGonagall said, almost sadly. “We can dole out punishments, but we can’t alter the opinions of the students, even if they are in the wrong.

“I’ve considered what it might be like if we have people lead by example, but I’m not sure whether or not it would make that much of a difference. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try, though.” 

Hermione frowned, “What do you mean by that?” 

McGonagall shrugged, “Having some Slytherins be seen amongst the other houses, blending them in view of the others. Perhaps, if those who already don’t believe they are to blame see others who think the same, they might come out and voice their opinions on the matter more plainly. I’m certain not everyone feels the Slytherin house is at fault for the war.”

“I agree,” Hermione nodded. “I think most of everyone is just following the example of those who have the most say.” 

“Perhaps we ought to try that then,” McGonagall stated, nodding once before she stood. Her shoes clicked against the floor as she stalked around the desk. “Would you be open to doing it yourself, Hermione? I don’t want to treat this as an order, as I worry there might be some repercussions, but it wouldn’t hurt to have you be one of the few we pair up. You are, after all, a rather well-known witch amongst your peers.” 

Hermione pulled her lip between her teeth as she thought. The headmistress was probably right on that front. As much as Hermione hated how many people knew her face and name, it could be useful in this matter. But the repercussions she mentioned worried her, if only for the sake of Harry and her other friends. She wondered how they might feel if they saw her hanging about with Slytherins, and what they might think of her. She wouldn’t be able to risk telling them what she was doing; Ginny’s lips were about as tightly sealed as a broken clasp, and if word got out it was all a hoax, it would be futile. 

After a moment had passed, Hermione nodded, “I’d be happy to, Headmistress.”

With plans to return to the headmistress’s office later that evening, Hermione left to return to her dorms. She was determined to stick to her schedule as much as she could, and that meant she was due to be studying in the library in less than ten minutes. She made quick work of grabbing her notes and texts, trying to keep as quiet as possible in the dorms for the sake of the few girls who were sleeping in. 

Once again, Hermione couldn’t say she was surprised to find the library empty. It was unlikely for anyone else to wander in there on a weekday but on the weekend? Unheard of. 

She set up at her regular table, sliding onto the chair that faced the door. There was something oddly comforting to her about knowing that, should anyone come in, they wouldn’t be facing her back. It was something of a habit she’d developed, often standing against walls and keeping her face towards crowds. 

Though there was still that nagging fear at the back of her mind, Hermoine easily settled into her work. It was always like that for her; studying came as easily as breathing. 

As far as Hermione knew, and she was fairly certain she was the most versed in the subject, there were no upcoming tests that she had to worry about. So instead of focussing on just one of her classes, she switched between all four, reviewing whatever material had been covered over the week just to make sure she could answer any questions that might be asked. 

Ginny found her hours later. Hermoine had been so focussed on a diagram of belladonna roots that she almost didn’t hear the hinges of the door squeak as the Weasley stepped inside. She jumped when her eyes caught movement, her heart skipping a beat and only settling when she saw Ginny’s familiar face. If Ginny had noticed her flinch, she didn't show it. Hermione could only hope she hadn't. 

Hermoine sat up and rolled her shoulders through the ache that had developed in her muscles. Hours spent hunched over a table never did anyone’s back any favors. 

“It’s almost dinner,” Ginny announced, her eyes dancing over the shelves. “I came to see what you were up to. I can’t say I’m very surprised.”

“I thought you would be spending the day with Harry,” Hermoine said, smiling softly. The pair of them were usually inseparable outside of classes. 

Ginny shrugged, “He’s off with the boys, so I came to find my favorite girl.”

Hermoine laughed lightly, “Ah, yes. Now it makes sense.”

“Did you want to head down to the hall with me?” Ginny asked. She looked down at the array of books Hermoine had splayed over the table and grimaced. “How long have you been in here, anyway?”

“Only a few hours,” Hermoine said, sparing a glance up at the clock. It was almost six. “I suppose I could use a break.”

Hermoine folded her notes and stuck them in the open pages of her books, keeping her place for whenever she was able to get back to work. While she packed her things away in her bag, Ginny drummed her nails on the edge of the table with half-minded impatience. The beat of her fingers and the shuffling of papers as Hermione shoved them away were the only sounds to fill the room. 

Hermione shouldered the tote back and smiled against the strain of it's weight; she really needed to invest in something that wouldn't leave it's straps digging into her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a little shorter than normal, but I figured it's best to leave it that way. I don't think anyone appreciates it when people add words for the sake of the word count and not the story. 
> 
> Again, thanks for reading! I didn't expect to wake up this morning and already have 100 hits on the story. If anyone has any comments or feedback, it's always appreciated.


	5. meeting

Harry and Ginny walked a few paces ahead of Hermione as they left the Great Hall. She supposed there was probably something to be said about the fact that, even though there was more than enough room beside them, she dawdled behind them instead. 

Ginny didn’t let her stray for long before she pulled her arm out of Harry’s and stopped just long enough for Hermione to catch up, “Do you want to play Gobstones in the common room for a while?” 

Hermione pursed her lips, “I can’t, not tonight. I have a meeting with the headmistress.” 

“Truly?” Ginny asked. Hermione watched her head swivel between her and Harry. “Harry was asked to meet with her as well.” 

Hermione blinked as the meaning of the words settled with her, and forcing herself not to react was suddenly very, very hard. 

If the headmistress has asked Harry to meet with her as well, then Hermione could only think that meant she wanted him to participate as well. The rational part of her knew that Harry wasn’t like the other students, the ones who blamed the Slytherin house for their roles in the war. He’d been at the trials right alongside Hermione, where both of them had testified in the student’s defense. He’d even defended Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake, even if he’d testified right through gritted teeth. 

The two of them shared a look, and Hermione realized he already knew what the headmistress had planned, and he didn’t seem to mind all that much. She knew him enough to know when he was nervous, and whatever he was feeling then, it was not that. 

It made sense to her, she supposed. Harry was probably the most well-known and respected wizard in their entire house; if McGonagall wanted people to notice a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, he was the best choice. A bitter feeling settled over her, and Hermione wasn't quite sure why.

“I wonder what it’s all about,” Ginny said, pursing her lips as she thought. It was almost painfully clear that Harry hadn’t told her anything, and Hermione suddenly felt guilty. 

She knew they couldn’t tell her, not really. Even if it felt horrible to lie, it was necessary. They couldn’t risk it. Ginny was just about as horrible with secrets as she was with her own temper; if there was any backlash, which Hermione assumed there would be, Ginny couldn’t be trusted not to react. If someone were to talk badly about Harry or Hermione behind their backs, Ginny would most certainly be the first person to defend them and damn the consequences. 

Hermione shook her head. She fidgeted with her hands in front of her body, tugging at her fingers one by one. 

The lying wasn’t the only part that made her nervous, though. A small part of her was grateful that she wouldn’t have to keep it a secret from both Harry and Ginny, but a bigger part of her was afraid of what that meant. 

Hermione had absolutely no idea what Ginny thought of the Slytherin house. Fred’s death had been horrible, and Hermione remembered all too easily how hard it had hit their family. How long it had taken Ginny and Ron and all of their brothers to grieve. Hermione supposed she couldn’t really blame her if Ginny still needed someone to blame. If there was a part of her that felt the need to be angry with someone who was alive enough to feel the hate. 

And what would Ginny do, Hermione thought, if she woke up the next morning to find Harry and Hermione walking the halls with their new Slytherin friends? The last thing she wanted was to make her feel ostracised. Even if Ginny didn’t think the Slytherin house was partly at fault for the war, she almost certainly didn’t like them. Many of them were known for being exceptionally rude towards her and her family. 

Ginny gave them both a pointed look, “You two haven’t been getting into trouble without me, have you? That wouldn’t be very fair.”

“Of course not,” Hermione laughed, but it sounded forced even to her own ears. Her nerves were shot from worry, and she couldn’t explain why it was bothering her as much as it was. “It’s probably just for an assignment or something, you know how the headmistress is.” 

The lie all but burned her tongue. 

“We’ll come to find you afterward,” Harry promised, leaning over to peck her cheek just once. 

“And tell me all about it,” Ginny said as she started to walk off, her feet sliding backward against the stonework. 

“Of course,” Hermione said. This time, she couldn’t bring herself to smile. 

They waited until Ginny had rounded the corner before either of them breathed a word, and Hermione couldn’t help but let out a sigh, “I think the most dreadful part of all of this is that we can’t tell her anything.”

“I know,” Harry frowned. “But she’ll understand when we’re done. I didn’t realize McGonagall had gotten you involved in thisーwhen did you speak to her?” 

“This morning,” Hermione told him. They started walking towards the stairs as they spoke, and Hermione hugged her arms around her middle. “You’re alright with all of this?”

“I think so,” Harry said, pressing his lips together. “I’m a little worried about who she might have picked out of the other bunch, though.”

Hermione felt her blood cool. She’d been so caught up in worry about Ginny and her friends that she hadn’t stopped to think about that, and it made her feel foolish. Of course that was something to worry about. 

She swallowed, “You don’t think… I mean, surely McGonagall would pick someone with whom there wouldn’t be any tension. That would make the most sense, right?” 

“On one hand, it would.” Harry said. “On the other…. She picked us because of how known we are in our own house. I’m worried she might have done the same with theirs.”

Hermione refused to allow herself to ponder that, knowing it could only make her more nervous, and her heartbeat was frantic enough as it was. Whoever McGonagall may have chosen, there was nothing Hermione could do about it. It wasn’t her decision to make, nor was it her place to question it. 

“Do you really think it’ll work?” Harry asked. 

Hermione shrugged, turning her head to look at him. He walked with his hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers, his robe left open and untied. “I’m not sure. Do you?”

“C’mon, Hermione.” Harry said, laughing lightly. “You’re the smart one, not me.”

She felt her lips twitch. 

“I’m not sure,” she turned to look back at the floor, watching her feet and each step they took. “It could, or it could not. I’d imagine having you help out will definitely push in our favor, but this isn’t the kind of thing that can be decided by maths or equations, you know. It’s personal. Opinion-based.” 

They were quiet for a minute. Hermione heard only the sounds of their footsteps, right up until a deep sigh tore its way out of Harry’s lips. “I’m a little disappointed the headmistress asked us to do this. I kind of wanted, well, a normal year, I guess.” 

“This can still be a normal year, Harry.” Hermione said. “For all you know, you might actually like whoever it is McGonagall is pairing us up with. If you go into this thinking it’ll be horrible, then that’s exactly what will happen.” 

It was a long second before he nodded, “I suppose you’re right, not that there’s much surprising about that.” 

Hermione almost laughed, but she was once again too nervous. She found it very easy to give Harry advice like that, but it was one thing to tell someone else to do it and quite another for her to do it herself. 

As the pair of them approached the Headmistress’s office, Hermione noticed the door had been left cracked open. She could hear the muffled sound of voices from within, and her heart rate seemed to double. There was no reason for her to be afraid; she knew it was silly and futile. No one was going to hurt her, and even if there was some backlash from the other students, she doubted it’d be more than just a few snide words or remarks. 

Still, she was nervous. Nervous and weak and without any of the courage she should have had. 

Harry was the first to step up to the door, knocking lightly on the frame before he pushed it open. From where Hermione stood, she couldn’t see through the door. Harry was in her way. But while she couldn’t see the office itself, she could see every movement her friend’s face made as he surveyed the room. 

She watched silently as his face seemed to drop, every muscle from his forehead to his chin falling in the span of a second. His jaw ticked, teeth grinding against one another for a second longer than Hermione was comfortable with. There were very few people who had the abilitity to get under Harry's skin like that. 

Though his reaction told Hermione nearly everything she needed to know, she found herself stepping closer to him to peer into the room on her own. There was no part of her that was surprised to see Draco Malfoy sitting in one of the chairs, his back to them but his shoulders just tense enough that Hermione knew that he was aware they’d arrived. Though Theodore Nott was sitting just next to him, Hermione found she wasn’t able to tear her eyes away from Malfoy’s head of white hair. 

Only one thought bounced around Hermione’s head, and she almost laughed as she realized it was exactly the kind of thing Ron would have said in a situation like this. 

_Bloody hell._


	6. Disdain

“No,” Harry said. It was the worst word to pass between them since he’d pushed open the door, and Hermione braced herself for the onslaught she knew would follow. “Absolutely not. I will not.”

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said, and only then did Hermione look up at the headmistress. She wasn’t sitting behind her desk this time. Instead, she was standing between the four students as though mediating a fight before it could begin. “I’d ask that you reconsider.”

Hermione watched Harry’s teeth grind again, and her own frown deepened. Though her heart was lurching with every beat it made, she cleared her throat and forced her words to come out in an even tone. “I think Harry’s just a bit surprised. He only needs a moment.” 

“A moment?” Harry said, turning towards her with fire in his eyes. 

Hermione knew his bitterness was getting the better of him. He was always on edge whenever Malfoy was involved, and Hermione couldn’t say she blamed him for that. The white-haired Slytherin had always been a bully, but he’d been especially mean towards Harry, Ron and her as the years went on. 

Back in first year, when Hermione had still had her parents to go home to over the breaks, she’d mentioned Malfoy to her mother. She’d told her all about the rude things he would say and how he would sling the word mudblood around as easily as a hello. Her mother had often told her it was probably because he was jealous of something they had and he didn’t, and Hermione had thought about those words more and more as the years went on. 

Harry, however, had never seemed to care why Malfoy might have been the way he was. All Harry cared about were the things he said, not the reasoning behind them. He and Ron were the same in that way.

“Yes,” Hermione said, narrowing her eyes in a way that she could only hope was warning. Harry seemed to get the message, drawing a deep and calming breath into his lungs and saying nothing more. 

“Right, then.” Theodore Nott said, and Hermione was almost certain it was the first time she’d ever heard him speak. Though she’d often heard he and Malfoy were friends, Hermione couldn’t remember ever seeing the two of them together in school, not in the halls or at meals. “This ought to be fun.” 

Hermione raised her fingers to her temple, already feeling the beginnings of the headache that would undoubtedly follow later that evening. She pursed her lips, “It’ll be fine.”

“Ah yes, I forgot,” Theodore said, looking up at her with a sly grin. “Hermione Granger; the brightest witch and _prophet_ of her age.”

Hermione felt herself go rigid, but she said nothing more. If she started throwing words with Theodore Nott, it would do nothing but set Harry off as well. 

The headmistress cleared her throat, and all four of the students looked over at where she stood between them. After years of dealing with them, Hermione supposed McGonagall must’ve been all too used to their antics. “I probably don’t need to tell you that the professors and I are very grateful you’ve all agreed to help put an end to this nonsense. Nor do I need to remind you that, if you four can’t be civil, it will not help at all.” 

“We can be civil,” Hermione said almost immediately. She elbowed Harry in the side, sensing some kind of argument bubbling to his lips. The sharp edge of her elbow stopped any words from being said. “I don’t doubt we can all agree to put our squabbles aside for the sake of peace.”

“Peace,” Malfoy muttered under his breath. The word came out like a curse, and Hermione froze. It was clear that he hadn’t meant for the others to hear him speak. 

It was only then that he turned to face her, eyeing her with the same look he had when she’d stopped the Ravenclaw boys that day in the corridor. As though she’d done something wrong, even though she was sure she had not. 

“Yes,” Hermione said, refusing to allow him to intimidate her with only his eyes. She’d never backed down from him, not before the war, anyway. “Peace. Do you have some sort of problem with that word?” 

The headmistress sighed, and Hermione felt blood rush to her face. She’d just said they could get along, but now she was the one who was causing problems. Actually, she supposed it was Malfoy’s fault. He might not have said anything truly harmful, but the sharpness of his eyes was just as powerful as any words. 

As Hermione realized she and Harry were still standing in the hall outside the office, she ushered him inside and followed suit. The last thing they needed was someone to walk by at the wrong time and catch snippets of their conversation. She pushed the door shut behind them and leaned back as if to give herself more space. 

“Hermione’s right,” Harry said, letting out a shaky breath. It didn’t escape her notice that, as he spoke, his eyes were trained directly on Malfoy, daring him to contradict. “We can put everything aside, as long as they can.” 

Malfoy met Harry’s stare with a tense edge to his features, “How Gryffindor of you.”

Unsure whether he was disagreeing or not, Hermione squared her shoulders, “Might I remind you, Malfoy, it’s your house that we’re trying to help.”

He tore his eyes away from Harry to look at her again, and though Hermione wanted nothing more than to turn away, she did not. She stared right back at him, eyes trained on the bluish-silver orbs, ignoring the chill that his coldness sent spiraling down her spine. 

When neither of them said anything more, McGonagall cleared her throat, “I expected there to be some tension between you all, but I hoped you’d be mature enough to put it aside.”

Hermione watched as Malfoy’s lips pressed together, but she wasn’t sure whether he was irritated by the situation itself or the headmistress’s insinuation that they weren’t mature. If she were a gambling kind of witch, she might have put money on both. 

“I’ve talked to a few of the professors regarding how best to handle this,” McGonagall paced lightly as she spoke. There was no one who could command a room like McGonagall could; she commanded respect with every breath she drew in. “They’ve all agreed that the four of you should be seen together outside of classes, socializing at what not. You’re probably more accustomed to your generation than I am, so you can decide what that means. I think we ought to schedule a meeting for the end of the week to discuss whether or not it’s working.” 

Questions came to Hermione’s mind just as soon as the headmistress finished speaking, and she barely stopped herself from raising her hand. “Do you mean to say that you’re leaving it up to our own interpretations?”

McGonagall shrugged, “I think that’d work best. The students are your peers, after all, not mine.”

“Is this the part where we pick our partners?” Theodore asked, one eyebrow raised just a little higher than the other. 

“Decide how you want to proceed amongst yourselves,” McGonagall said, eyeing them warily before she continued. “I doubt my presence is necessary for that, so consider yourselves dismissed. But please do try to keep out of trouble; I truly believe all four of you want the same thing, if only you can let yourself admit that.” 

Hermione swallowed and said nothing, watching as the headmistress waved her hand to send them off. Her and Harry were the first to step into the hall, and Hermione kept her eyes trained on the floor as the Slytherin boys followed them out. There were a hundred different thoughts passing through her mind at a rate so fast she couldn’t quite grasp them. 

She was weighing the pros and cons of it all before she even realized what she was doing. There were parts of this that she was relieved about; grateful that they were being left to their own devices and decisions, and not under the strict guidelines of the Headmistress and professors. If nothing else, that meant she could probably still keep her schedule on track. But even with that relief, Hermione couldn’t help but feel nervous. Harry’s shoulders were still tense enough that she might have thought he was walking to an execution if she didn’t know better. 

The four of them stood out in the hall, not one of them wanting to be the first to speak. For some reason, without the Headmistress there to mediate them, it felt awkward. 

Finally, Hermione decided it was too much to bear. She cleared her throat and looked up from the floor, “Should we stick together as a group, or go out in pairs?” 

“Salazar, Granger, we’re not marching off to war,” Malfoy snickered. She watched his eyes dance over Harry’s silent form, but he said nothing more. 

Theodore chuckled, “I think the silence here speaks for itself. I don’t know about you, Granger, but I think I’d rather risk our chances with a bomb than I would standing next to these two any longer.”

Malfoy shot him a glare, but he didn’t try to contradict him. There wasn’t much he could say to contradict him; the tension in the room was as thick as molasses, and Hermione could almost feel it seeping from Harry like a cloud. 

“You might be right,” Hermione swallowed. Her next words felt like knives cutting into her lips as she spoke. “I suppose that means it’s Nott and Harry, and me and Malfoy.” 

Though Hermione felt the air shift as Malfoy’s head whipped towards her, she refused to look at him. She was certain all that would do was make her even more nervous, and she wasn’t sure she could take any more of it. Her stomach felt like she’d drunk a mis-brewed potion and she didn’t want to risk losing her supper all over the floor. 

Hermione wasn’t sure if Harry had even heard her speak; he hadn’t so much as shifted since they’d stepped out of the Headmistress’ office. She risked another elbow jab to his side, and he seemed to jump out of whatever thoughts had left him still.

Theodore reached over and slung an arm over Harry’s shoulder, walking him a little further down the hall so they could work out a plan. Hermione watched them for a second, praying that Harry would be okay with this. Theodore Nott might have a sharp witt, but she was certain he wouldn’t tempt Harry’s anger as much as Malfoy’s would. 

“Well?” Malfoy asked, and the word drew Hermione’s gaze back to his own. There was something so very unnervingly cold about Malfoy’s eyes. His stare made her feel as though he was picking her apart and analyzing the pieces all at the same moment. "Are we meant to walk each other to our classes? Study out in the quad?"

The words were dripping with venom, and Hermione schooled her features not to react. Hermione swallowed, her fingers gripping at the hem of her skirt. Her fists were closed tight enough that, without the fabric there to block them, her nails might have drawn blood from her palms. "I suppose we ought to decide on some rules."


	7. rules

“Rules,” Malfoy repeated, the word so quiet Hermione was once again certain he hadn’t meant for her to hear. His lips twitched. 

Hermione blinked, “Yes, or at least a plan of some sort. I know you were joking before, but walking to our classes together isn’t a terrible idea. The corridors are always busy, people will see us.”

She waited for him to answer, pulling at each of her fingers. She realized that this was probably the first and only time she’d ever been alone with Malfoy, and that made her afraid. Not because she thought of him as a death eater; Hermione knew he’d made terrible choices in the past, but he’d chosen the right side in the end. She supposed that counted for something, even if Harry didn’t agree. 

Even so, Hermione couldn’t shake her nerves. While Malfoy might have thrown Harry his wand that day, while he might have chosen their side when it mattered, it didn’t make up for all of it. Hermione could still remember the first time he’d called her a mudblood. She’d still been only a girl then, and he was just a boy, and yet it had hurt her more than she wanted to admit. That’d been the first time anyone had ever said that word to her face. She doubted it was something she would ever forget. 

“Fine,” he said, finally. He was no longer looking at her, and Hermione wasn’t sure what that meant. Whenever Hermione averted her eyes, it was because she was nervous or afraid. Malfoy didn’t seem like either of those things. “I suppose I’ll have to meet you in the morning.”

The tone of his voice didn’t sit right with her. She felt her blood simmering beneath her skin, edging towards a boiling point. Her emotions were quickly going haywire, the mix of irritation and anxiety becoming too much for her to handle. “You know, this truly would go over so much easier if you at least tried to be civil.”

His jaw ticked, “I haven’t said one single insulting thing this entire evening.”

She scoffed, “No, maybe not, but your tone is just as insulting as any words you might come up with.”

“My tone?” He repeated, eyes wide, almost as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You sound like my mother, Granger.”

She swallowed, “Yes, well, motherlike or not it’s still true.”

“Maybe you ought to get your ears checked,” Malfoy muttered. “There’s nothing wrong with my tone.”

Hermione felt the urge to stomp her foot, as though it would somehow give her some kind of leverage in the conversation. Talking to Malfoy was like talking to a child; neither had any sense of reasoning. 

She told herself to breathe, knowing that being angry would do her no good. Malfoy was no more likely to listen to her if she started screaming; all that would do, she thought, was make him think he’d won. Exactly what there was to win or lose, she wasn’t sure.

“I’ll meet you in the Great Hall, after breakfast.” Hermione told him.

Malfoy looked up at the ceiling and drew in a breath, “You could just ask McGonagall to find another Slytherin for this, you know. It’s not like it has to be me.”

Hermione felt her cheek twitch as her jaw clenched. She didn’t consider herself brave anymore, but if there was anything she was determined to do, it was to keep that fact to herself. It didn’t matter how much she might prefer the idea of someone else, she refused to turn tail. If Malfoy wanted out of this, he would have to tell the Headmistress himself. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Hermione said, her voice almost surprisingly calm. She didn’t wait for him to say anything else before she started towards the dorms. 

Theodore and Harry were nowhere to be seen; she wondered if they’d worked things out already and had gone their separate ways, or if they were just hiding in one of the many corridors. Either way, she didn’t try to look for them. She wasn’t sure just how long Malfoy would stay standing in that hallway, and she didn’t want to risk running into him. She’d made her exit almost awkwardly fast. 

The Gryffindor common room was a bustle of activity. As Hermione stepped through the open portrait, she was immediately immersed in it all. Students crowded every corner, some working on homework while most talked over the voices of others. The fire crackled against the far wall, making one side of the room ten times brighter than the other. 

Ginny was sitting on one of the sofas playing a game of chess with another seventh year whose name Hermione didn’t know. She’d long since learned that Ginny was just talkative enough to be one of those people with all different kinds of friends, ranging from year to year and hobby to hobby. She wasn’t like Hermione, Harry and Ron, who had stuck close to one another and never really tried to branch out all that much. 

Harry, Hermione realized, was not in the common room. She was sure he hadn’t retired for the evening, not already; something told her he wouldn’t have gone to bed knowing she was out in the halls with Malfoy. He was far too much of a worrywart. 

Knowing that Ginny would want her to give some kind of explanation for the meeting with McGonagall, Hermione opted for avoiding her for the evening. She didn’t want to lie, not when her nerves already felt fried and her energy drained. Part of her hoped, selfishly, that Harry would tell Ginny something if Hermione only avoided it long enough. 

It was wrong of her to put the weight of that on his shoulders, and Hermione knew that. Ginny was her friend, yes, but she was also Harry’s girlfriend. It shouldn’t be up to him to feed her untruths. 

Still, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to cross the room. It made her so unbelievably angry with herself. It made her feel stupid and weak and not unlike a coward. Harry had said Ginny would understand, when all was said and done. He’d told her it would be fine, and yet Hermione was too afraid to let herself fully believe it.

She crossed the room with her head hanging low, her curly mop of hair blanketing her face and keeping it out of Ginny’s peripheral vision. Hermione felt herself holding her breath, just waiting for someone to call out her name and draw attention towards her. The relief when she reached the stairs and no one had so much as said a word to her was almost indescribable. 

There were only a few girls in their dorm when Hermione marched up the stairs, and she spared them but a glance before she started towards her bed. Her nightclothes were folded neatly over the duvet, exactly as she’d left them that morning. Sometimes, when she woke up early and could no longer sleep, she passed the time by arranging her clothes and almost compulsively cleaning her bunk. Time passed quickly that way; she couldn’t do it fast, not when she had to be quiet for the sake of all those still asleep. 

She thought about taking her books out and reading. It was still early in the day, enough so that the sun had only just fully disappeared from view on the other side of the window panes. 

But Hermione was just so tired. Everything was catching up to her, she knew. The lack of sleep, the rigorous schedule she was forcing herself to keep. She knew that it wouldn’t be long now before everything hit her at once, and it would hit her hard. 

She changed and climbed onto her bed, hoping foolishly that sleep would find her quickly and that there would be no nightmares this time. 

By the time Hermione actually drifted off, every other girl had already gone to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really sure how to describe Hermione as a narrator. This book is very much in her head, so there are a few points where I'd especially refer to her as an untrustworthy narrator (or whatever the actual term for that is). I think it'll come into play a lot more later on, especially when her and Draco actually start talking and getting to know each other better.


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione wasn’t very hungry at breakfast the next morning. She sat on the bench across from Harry and Ginny, her back to the wall and her eyes trained across the room at the Slytherin table.

There were hundreds of different voices all around her, and yet Hermione could barely hear any of them over the sound of her own blood rushing past her ears. Both Ginny and Harry had already noticed something was wrong with her, but she’d played it off by claiming she was just tired. 

That wasn’t a lie, not truly. Hermione was tired. She’d awoken gasping for breath long before the sun had touched the sky, and she hadn’t been able to fall back to sleep. 

Every few seconds, Hermione’s eyes would find Draco Malfoy in the crowd. He’d finished eating a while ago, and she was no longer sure whether she was waiting for him or he for her. They’d only planned as far as to meet there, but how would Hermione know when he was ready to go? She could all too easily imagine him insulting her for making him leave before he was done. 

When Malfoy didn’t so much as turn his head, she looked back at her friends. Harry sipped from his glass of water, completely focussed on the conversation he and Ginny were having. Hermione heard the words “quidditch” and “practice” and completely tuned it out; there were few things that interested her less than sports. 

Unlike herself, Harry didn’t look the least bit disturbed. She wanted to ask him what he and Theodore had worked out, when and where they had planned to be seen with one another. She wanted to ask if he was still irritated from their meeting, but she wasn’t sure whether she truly wanted to know. 

Hermione watched a number of students start to filter out through the doors of the Great Hall, and she looked back at Malfoy, silently pleading for him to look back. If he noticed her stare, he was ignoring it. She gritted her teeth. 

A moment passed before she made a decision and jumped to her feet. Ginny flinched at the sudden movement, “You alright?” 

“What?” Hermione said, blinking. “Yes, fine. I just… I have to… I have to go to class.” 

“Alright, we’ll walk you,” Ginny said. She started to stand. 

“No!” Hermione all but yelled. She winced as Ginny’s eyes widened. “Sorry, I just have…” A breath. “I have other plans.”

She felt Harry’s eyes on her, but Hermione couldn’t bring herself to meet them. He was horrible at masking his emotions, and she was nervous enough on her own. She didn’t need to add to that by seeing whatever lurked behind his gaze, be it concern or anger or whatever else. 

Rolling her shoulders, Hermione pushed her notebook into her chest and started to cross the hall. Part of her wanted to duck out the doors and forget she’d ever made this deal; maybe even forget the plan entirely. That idea flew out her head just as soon as she looked up at the Slytherin table again. She’d only seen Malfoy and Parkinson attacked, but how many others had faced that kind of wrath? How many others had been hurt or insulted when Hermione wasn’t there to witness or stop it? 

She swallowed again and kept walking. Malfoy was sitting on the far side of the table when she stalked over, and he only noticed she was there when she’d stopped walking entirely. It felt like the entire table had noticed her then; she felt their gazes burning into her skin like a curse. 

Her heart was beating wildly, but she ignored it. Tuned the organ out as best as she could. Malfoy simply watched her. 

“Are you ready to go?” She asked him, wincing at the sound of her voice. It was too high; too false. She thought she heard someone laughing, but she couldn’t bring herself to look anywhere other than Malfoy’s eyes. Somehow, looking at him was better than looking at the others. His gaze wasn’t curious; he wasn’t looking at her like she’d stepped over a line she shouldn’t have crossed. He knew exactly why she was standing there.

She couldn’t help but notice that, just like her, he looked out of place. As though he wanted to be anywhere other than sitting there right then. 

Theodore Nott, who was seated just to Malfoy’s left, was the first to speak. “Ranger Ganger. Come to take your friend to class, have you?” 

“Her friend?” Pansy Parkinson repeated, and Hermione watched her head swivel between Malfoy and herself, eyes wide and unbelieving. 

Hermione wanted to crawl under the table and die. 

“Don’t you know, Pansy?” Nott said, a knowing grin on his face. “Draco and Granger here have become something of pals over late.” 

Pansy blinked, “They’ve what?” 

“Shut up, Theo.” Malfoy muttered. He was already moving to stand. His knee knocked Nott’s arm as he stepped over the bench, sending the boy’s fork careening over the table. From the hardness of Malfoy’s eyes, Hermione knew it wasn’t an accident. “You’re not helping.” 

“I choose to believe otherwise,” Nott said. He reached for his fork, that grin not so much as twitching. 

Malfoy sighed. He ignored Pansy’s still wide eyes, as well as the stares of everyone else, and looked down at Hermione. She felt her grip harden around her notebook, crinkling the edges of the pages. His nose flared. “Let’s go, then.”

They met at the end of the table and fell into pace beside one another. Hermione forced herself not to look around the room before they left; it’d gone quiet enough that she knew everyone, if not most of everyone, was watching them leave. The only thing keeping her walking was her own force of will; she could hardly feel her legs, they’d gone so numb. 

Neither of them said a word until they reached the end of the hall, and Malfoy slowed to a stop. Hermione followed suit. He looked down at her again, but Hermione couldn’t meet his gaze. She was too busy watching her fingers fiddle with the binding of her notes. 

“You look absolutely terrified.” He mumbled. 

She raised her chin, but she still couldn’t look up. She’d never noticed how much taller he was compared to her; it made him intimidating. It made her feel puny and frail. “I’m not.”

He scoffed, “Right, of course. I forgot Gryffindor’s can’t feel fear.” 

When she didn’t say anything, he continued. “You didn’t have to walk up to the table.” 

“I tried to get your attention. What else was I meant to do?” She let out a breath. “And regardless, the entire point of this… this arrangement, is that the other students see us together.”

Hermione heard him sigh softly before he spoke. It was a small, defeated sound. She wasn’t sure if it meant he’d understood, or if he was simply not in the mood to argue. “What’s your first class, then?”

She blinked, almost sure she’d misheard him at first. “Potions.” 

He nodded, “I suppose I’ll walk you there, then.” 

Again, she could only blink at him. As they started walking towards the stairs, it became more and more apparent to her that this was not normal. Not only their arrangement, as she had dubiously put it, but Malfoy himself. Two years ago, if they were in this situation, he never would have offered to walk her to her own class. He would have demanded she walk him to his, claiming some sort of pureblood superiority that she’d never fully understood. 

Then again, she thought, the old Malfoy would have never agreed to any of this in the first place. She couldn’t imagine he would have cared if the Slytherins were being persecuted by the other houses; nothing short of a miracle would have forced him to spend any measurable amount of time with her. 

Neither of them said a word until they’d stopped outside the potions lab, and Hermione finally turned to look at him. She hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a gauntness to his face. Shadows under his cheekbones and browlines that hadn’t been there before the war. 

Not for the first time, Hermione found herself wondering what he was thinking. She thought of the choices he’d made back before the battle, and she wondered if he thought about them, too. She thought about his father, who was serving a life-sentence in Azkaban for the war, and what he thought about that. She thought of the dark mark on his arm; the one that he’d been forced to expose to a judge and jury over the course of his trial, while Hermione had been sitting in the witness stands. 

And she wondered just how much he regretted all of it, and what effect that kind of guilt might have. 

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of place. When he looked down and caught her gaze, he seemed to shudder under the weight of it. Hermione wondered what that meant, that small and almost insignificant movement. She wondered if he might be just as afraid of her as she was of him. 

He said nothing, and Hermione watched him unwaveringly as he passed her to walk back the way they’d come.


	9. note

Hermione’s last class of the day was transfiguration. It was one of the few classes she had without Ginny or Harry, and the only class she had with Malfoy. He sat near the back of the room, in one of the very last rows. Hermione had always known he was there; she’d noticed him, but she’d never felt so aware of him until right then. 

She did her best to focus on the lesson, but Hermione couldn’t help how often her mind wondered. It didn’t help that McGonagall taught this class either, she supposed. The Headmistress herself acted as a reminder. It was impossible for Hermione to focus on her notes when she was far too busy worrying about everything else.

She’d been staring down at a nearly blank page in her notebook, her mind spiralling in on itself, when a paper flew it’s way onto her desk. Hermione nearly jumped, looking around to see who had sent it towards her. No one was even looking towards her. 

With one glance towards the Headmistress to make sure she wasn’t watching, Hermione pulled the neatly folded paper onto her lap and under the cover of her desk. Her fingers shook as she unraveled it; it wasn’t lost on her that any of her friends would have at least looked at her to make sure she knew it came from them. 

And because of that, there was no part of her that was surprised to find what was written on the inside. In two messily scrawled lines, either a boy’s handwriting or a very unorderly girl, it read: 

_Watch yourself, snake hugger. There’s no sympathy for the friends of death eaters._

Hermione crumpled it in her fist, wanting to cast an inferno spell on the paper right then and there. It was nothing but a juvenile threat, she knew. Probably sent by some immature fool who thought it would but funny to get a rise out of her. Even so, it took everything in her to keep her face straight and her hands still. She wouldn’t let them see her afraid, not over something like this. 

When class ended, Hermione sat idly and waited for the others to file out first. She watched the other students grab their books and their quills and march towards the door as though she’d find the culprit as simply as that. No one so much as glanced her way. 

The room had almost cleared when she heard someone’s steps stop just behind her, and she hated that she recognized the soft thud of his, probably stupidly expensive, shoes. 

“What’s it say, then?” Malfoy asked. 

She stood, the note still tucked in her hand and probably wilted with the sweat of her palm. “Nothing important.”

“If you’d said it was just a bit of gossip, I might’ve believed you.” Malfoy said, and Hermione looked up just in time to watch his eyes narrow. He wasn’t glaring at her, not really. It was more like he was looking at her under the fine lens of a microscope. “Now, I know it’s not.” 

“Because I said it was nothing?” Hermione clarified. She sighed. “Truly Malfoy, it’s not a big deal. I’m not sure why you care, anyway.” 

They stared at each other for a moment, a battle of eyes and nothing more. She wondered how he’d even known about the note in the first place. Had he been watching her, or had it simply caught his eye when it’d flown towards her desk?

He reached for her textbooks and grabbed them right off of her desk, tucking them under his arm against his own. They looked so small there. “I’m assuming it’s something to do with this morning?” 

He started walking towards the door, and Hermione pursed her lips as she followed. She told herself it was only because he had her textbooks under his arm, and not at all because she favored the idea of walking with him over walking alone. It wasn’t that the note had gotten to her that much; really, it had only added to her fears just a little, but Hermione hadn’t liked the hallways to begin will. There were too many turns, too many shadows, and too many places for someone to hide. 

Malfoy waited on the other side of the classroom door, and Hermione didn’t bother to ask where he was heading now that classes were over for the day. If he wanted to hold her books hostage and force her to talk, then he would walk her to wherever she wanted to go. It only seemed fair. 

She started towards the stairs as she unscrambled the note and wordlessly handed it to him. The silence felt almost deafening as he read it, and he said nothing for a long minute. He gave it back to her, his fingertips brushing her own, and the moment it was in Hermione’s possession, she started tearing it to shreds. 

“Delinquents.” Malfoy said, breaking the quiet. “Unoriginal ones, at that.”

“I told you it was nothing,” Hermione replied. They started up the steps, him taking two at a time and her trickling behind him. Every time someone passed by them, their faces went slack with curiosity. It made Hermione feel as though the pair of them were some kind of circus act, and it made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t quite describe. 

After months of being watched and gaped at as though she were some kind of celebrity, she would have thought she’d have grown used to it by then. But the stares that followed her and Malfoy as they weaved through the hallways were not the same as the ones people gave her when they recognized her as a part of _the golden trio_. Both made her skin crawl, but one was most decidedly worse than the other. 

Hermione stopped walking just outside of the library, holding out her hand for her textbook as Malfoy surveyed where she’d led him. 

A small smile graced his lips as he looked down at her, “The library. Why am I not surprised?”

The way he spoke was almost haughty, and Hermione felt a blush creep over her cheeks. “Is there something wrong with it?” 

His head tilted to the side, and he made no move to give her back her texts. Once again, Hermione felt the need to stomp her foot on the ground. Malfoy had some incredibly unnerving ability to infuriate her by using the fewest possible words. 

“Of course not, Granger.” Malfoy said. “It’s just boring is all.” 

“Well, no one said you had to go in,” Hermione countered. “Just give me my books, and you can go find something better to do with your time.”

He glanced down at the textbooks under his arm in a way that made her think he’d forgotten about them. With a blink, he grabbed hers and shoved them towards her, his arm moving so fast Hermione almost flinched. She took them and held them against her front, wrapping her arms around them as though they were some kind of shield between her and the world. 

Malfoy turned back to the library door, and she watched his eyes dance over the grooves in the wood. It was only the two of them in the hallway; there weren’t any classrooms near here, nor was there much of anything else. 

He swallowed, “You know, you could still tell McGonagall you don’t want to do this. I doubt she’d be all that disappointed in you.”

Her back went rigid. “I’m not backing out of this, Malfoy. If you want out, you’ll have to talk to her yourself.”

“I never said I wanted out,” he said, his head whipping back towards her so quickly his hair moved with the displaced air. Still, there was no anger on his face. Not a trace of that sneer that she’d come to know so well over the years. “Granger, I meant it this morning when I said you looked terrified. I… oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m not trying to be condescending.”

Hermione’s face went slack as she mulled over his words. Her brain couldn’t seem to work past that first remark, and it echoed through her thoughts like an alarm. “I wasn’t afraid. There was nothing to be afraid of. We all survived a war, I would imagine it would take more than a room full of judging teenagers to scare someone now.”

Malfoy looked at her in that quizzical way again, and he shook his head. “Nevermind, then. But I’ll tell you this, Granger. There is no one in this world who knows more about wearing masks and hiding things than I do. I know exactly the kinds of thoughts and things that lurk behind facades. We might not be friends, but you don’t need to wear a mask in front of me.” 

He spun on his heels, the soles grinding against the stone, and left her there to gape after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming to you live from broke studentville: my computer decided it didn't need the g or h keys anymore so now they just don't work. I'm sorry this chapter took so long to upload, but you won't believe how long it takes to write when you need to use copy and past every time certain letters are necessary. I actually just gave up halfway through this and started typing it out on my phone instead. 
> 
> On another note, jeez does AO3 move fast. This is almost at 1000 hits now and that's absolutely crazy to me. As always, let me know your thoughts and thank you all for reading!


	10. panic

Hermione found it twenty times harder to focus on her studies that evening. It didn’t matter how hard she stared at the pages, or however many times she reread the same sentence over and over again. The feeling was foreign to her; usually, it was all too easy to lose herself in school. 

It might not have bothered her as much as it did if it weren’t for the direction her thoughts were straying. Her mind kept replaying Malfoy’s words, time and time again, and she couldn’t quite explain why. Hermione wasn’t naive enough to believe no one had noticed the changes in her. Though she was diligent about her pretending, there were always small moments when she knew either Harry or Ginny had noticed something was different. But neither of them had ever said anything, not about how quiet she was sometimes, and definitely not about the times when she was easily startled. 

The fact that Malfoy had noticed, too, made her feel strange. And that he had said something about it only made it that much worse. After all, how transparent did she have to be that someone who barely knew her would be able to see through her that well?

After what was only an hour, but felt like ten times that, Hermione gave up on her books for the evening. Sitting there with her mind running rampant wasn’t doing her any favours. She needed a distraction. 

Ginny was usually good at that. 

Hermione gathered her things, only briefly remembering Malfoy walking with her textbook in hand, and left the library. She didn’t have to wonder where Ginny would be. 

When the students had all come back for the school year, one of the first things everyone had noticed was the dwindled student numbers. It was one thing to hear the numbers and to see the carnage on the battlefields, but it was quite another to see all the missing places in the Great hall. It changed everything. 

Many of Harry and Ginny's Quidditch teammates had been lost to the war. It was the same for all four of the houses. Now, with nearly half the team having been replaced by new and less experienced players, they just weren’t as good as they used to be. 

There was something about that fact that always seemed to pain Hermione. She knew it was worse for Harry and Ginny, who saw those losses every time they stepped onto the field without the familiar faces of those who’d been there before, but it hurt her too. It was why Hermione usually avoided their practices, and sometimes their games, if she could do so without Ginny noticing. 

She was thankful that their practice usually ended early on Monday’s, being as it was a weekday and not many of the players were willing to be late for supper. By the time Hermione made it to the fields, they were all on the ground with their broomsticks in hand. 

Hermione walked over to Harry and Ginny, the latter of whom had her arms crossed over her chest use a little too tightly for it to be a normal stance. Immediately, she felt her heart constrict with worry. It seemed as though, these days, it took less than nothing to make her feel anxious.

“How was practice?” Hermione asked in lieu of a greeting. Both of their heads swiveled towards her.

Harry shrugged and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Not… horrible.” 

“Not horrible?” Ginny repeated. She shook her head. “It was amateur. I’m actually worried about our game with Ravenclaw this weekend. _Ravenclaw_ , for pity’s sake.” 

“I’m sure you’ll do well,” Hermione said, smiling softly.

“I suppose we’ll just have to see,” Ginny said with a sigh. 

“Don’t worry about it too much,” Hermione told her. 

Just as soon as the words left her lips, Ginny’s eyes widened, and she fixed her with a stare that was almost enough to make Hermione shiver. “Speaking of worrying—I’ve been beside myself all day, ‘Mione!”

Hermione blinked. 

“You walked right up to Draco Malfoy like the pair of you were two bloody peas in a pod.” Ginny clarified. Hermione felt her stomach drop, and she wondered just how many times that could happen before it fell right out of her body. “What in Merlin’s pants was that all about?” 

Though it had taken the better half of her classes that morning, Hermione had come up with something of a ruse to tell Ginny should the conversation arise. But the small, and very nearly nonexistent, optimistic side of her had hoped she’d have more time. She really did hate the idea of lying. It made her feel cruel and slimy, and just plain wrong. 

Hermione cleared her throat, “We… we have a few classes together, so we’ve been talking a bit more. He’s not terrible, I suppose.” 

The look on Ginny’s face was the exact kind Hermione thought she would have if someone told her ogre’s were falling from the sky. “He’s not terrible. He’s not _terrible_? Hermione, I might be a year younger, but even I’ve had eyes all these years. Malfoy’s a bloody git, not to mention he was a death eater!”

Hermione sputtered, “I mean, I’m not denying he’s made some poor decisions—“

“Poor decisions?” Ginny interrupted. Hermione could feel a scolding coming, much in the same way she used to whenever her mother used her full name. “A poor decision is when you sleep in and miss breakfast, or when you skip a class and get detention. What he did? That is not just a poor decision.”

“Well, it’s not anything you have to worry about,” Hermione said. “I can promise you that.” 

Ginny looked anything but convinced, and though Hermione was sure she had a hundred other things to say, the Weasley girl did nothing but sigh. 

Hermione wasn’t quite sure what was a lie and what wasn’t. She didn’t trust Malfoy, not really. There was too much history there for it all to be resolved in just one day. Once, if anyone had asked what she thought about him, she would have said he was a tosser and a few other foul-mouthed words. Now, however, she wasn’t so sure. There was a part of her that truly believed his actions were just mistakes, or perhaps the decisions hadn’t even been his own.

It would make sense, she supposed. Lucius Malfoy had been a death eater through and through, and the only remorse he’d shown during his trial was likely to have been only a ploy to lighten his own sentence. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to be raised by him— by someone so selfish and starving for power. 

Malfoy was not her friend, she knew, and yet a part of her wanted so desperately to try and convince Ginny that he was not a bad person. And she knew, for some strange and entirely annoying reason, that it wasn’t just because of the plan to help the Slytherin house. It was a part of it, certainly, but it was not the whole. 

She glanced over at Harry, who had turned to look down at the wood of his broom as though the grooves were far more interesting than their current conversation. She wished he would say something, even though she was all but certain it wouldn’t help very much. She supposed Ginny must not have seen him with Theodore Nott yet, otherwise he, too, would have been questioned in Ginny’s rampage. 

Hermione cleared her throat, “Anyone want to head up for supper? I’m starving.”

For a moment, Ginny looked as though she wanted to say something else, but she seemed to change her mind as she nodded, “Me, too.”

They fell into step side by side, sauntering back up the pathway towards the school. Hermione felt the chill of the air against her skin where her sweater and robes didn’t cover it. 

But even despite the cold and the somewhat uncomfortable feeling that lingered in Hermione’s chest after their conversation, she couldn’t help but notice the peace of the school grounds. It was quiet enough that she could hear the rustle of trees and the thud of her own feet. It was calming, in a way; as though every time she took in another breath of fresh air there was a little bit less turmoil in her heart. 

The further they got from the fields, the louder it became. There were more students, all standing in groups in the quad and chatting about this and that. They never got close enough to hear anyone’s conversations, but that didn’t stop the stares. For each head that turned towards them, Hermione felt her shoulders go more rigid. 

She knew it would only get worse as time went on— the more she was seen with Malfoy, the more people would look at her. The more she would be judged and questioned as people wondered what she was doing and why she was doing it. There would be rumors and gossip, and they would whisper about her as she passed. 

It was suddenly hard to breath, and Hermione could do nothing but focus on keeping the struggle quiet. The last thing she wanted was for Harry and Ginny to see her panicking over something so futile. Something so small and insignificant that it shouldn’t matter, and yet it did. 

By the time they made it to the great hall, Hermione’s ears felt numb, and all of the noise and voices around her sounded as though they were far quieter than they ought to be. She could feel herself breathing, but it didn’t feel like enough air. As though she was drowning while standing upright and looking as though nothing was wrong. 

She wasn’t hungry, not even a little, and yet she sat at the bench across from her friends and picked up food just as they did.

Ginny and Harry started talking about Quidditch, and she could barely hear every second word they spoke. Her heart was like a hammer, battering against her ribs and building a pressure so great she thought she would explode. 

It was always there, that pressure, but it was worse now. Growing and building with no end in sight. 

Hermione looked down at the plate of food before her, eyes fixing on the vegetables and the white-knuckled grip she had on her fork. She counted every breath she drew in, feeling her lungs expand and trying desperately to calm herself down. She knew the techniques— breathing deeply, reminding herself that everything was fine. 

Slowly, Hermione’s heart rate climbed back down. She felt every beat as everything slowly went back to normal. 

By the time her body felt like her own again, Harry and Ginny had both nearly cleared their plates. Hermione still didn’t feel hungry—rather, she felt more like she wanted to vomit. 

The two of them were still engrossed in their conversation, and now that she could hear them she knew they were discussing which players they could count on in the game that weekend. 

Hermione picked at her food, shuffling it around the plate without taking a single bite. With a sigh, she looked up and around the hall, searching for the stares and gossip despite the fact that she knew she shouldn’t. Most of everyone was engrossed in conversations, and though no one was explicitly looking at her, she couldn’t help the nagging feelings hat told her they were talking about her. 

Her eyes danced over the Slytherin table, glancing at each and every black and green robe on the benches. She was so focussed on her aimless search that she nearly missed the one pair of eyes that were trained directly on her— blue-grey orbs that were piercing her so hard she knew he’d been watching her for a while. 

It’s ironic, she thought without looking away, that he could notice her panic from all the way over there, while the friends that sat close to her didn’t seem to see a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry for the wait-- the new semester started, and I've been moving into my apartment for the school session. 
> 
> Does it make up for it if I tell you that there will be a lot more Dramione content in the next few chapters?


	11. Walk

Hermione could feel the tension in the air of the Gryffindor common room. It was thick and heavy and pricked at every nerve in her skin. 

Ginny sat across from her, each of them taking up a space on the old and worn couches near the fireplace. Heat drifted from the flames, and an orange hue danced across the carpet beneath their feet. This was a place where, when it came down to it, Hermione had always felt safe. She wasn’t sure that was true anymore. 

While the castle itself felt like one giant ghost, the common room was home. This was where Hermione had grown up, more or less. Where she had met her friends every morning, where she had never before felt out of place. Everyone in this room had been told they belonged there, that this was the place where they would become the best person they could be. 

Hermione didn’t feel like she belonged there anymore. 

The doubt had been sitting in her for months, but now it was worse. Now, it was not all in her head. People were looking at her as though she were an oddity, questions by the dozens in their gazes. 

If there was anything she missed, it was normalcy. She missed the times when she didn’t worry about other students and what they might be thinking. She missed the days when classes and her grades would be all that graced her mind. She missed the days when she hadn’t known what would happen—when the war was nothing but a distant nightmare that no one truly believed would come to fruition. 

And this wasn’t new to her life. This wasn’t some wish that had developed at the fault of McGonagall’s plan. It had been a long while since anything had felt normal to Hermione. Nearly a year, she was sure, since she’d felt some semblance of ordinary. 

Hermione looked up and caught Neville Longbottom’s stare. He looked away so quickly she might have imagined it, but she knew she didn’t. There was something about that that stung a little more than the others; they weren’t best friends, her and Neville, but they were friends at the very least. He was kind, and now he, too, didn’t know what to think about her. 

She wondered just how many of the students in that room thought the Slytherins were to blame for what happened in the war. Some of them had to— she’d caught two Gryffindors harassing Parkinson not too long ago. How many of them would hate her now, thinking her siding with their enemy? 

Everything about that thought made her want to sigh so deeply and heavily that her lungs would probably collapse. It was just so frustrating. The war was in the past, the criminals locked away, so why did they insist on keeping the fighting alive?

Another minute passed, and Hermione felt her teeth gritting against each other, grinding and grinding until it was a wonder it didn’t leave bone dust on her tongue. She stood, almost too quickly, and flashed Ginny a smile that was entirely too fake, “I’m going to go for a walk.” 

“A walk?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, nodding. “Don’t wait up for me, alright?”

Ginny paused, “Alright. But don’t stay out too late, either. You look tired, Hermione, you need more sleep and less studying.”

Hermione nodded, grateful for the concern, however wrong Ginny might’ve been. Hermione’s lack of sleep was not the fault of her studying or school. It was the fault of her mind, and the places it liked to revisit. Over and over again. 

She left the common room, stepping out onto the staircase and basking in the silence. It was calming, for once, to hear the quiet of the castle. 

She walked down to the first floor, her hands shoved deep in the pockets of her cloak and her wand just within reach. She still wasn’t keen on the idea of being alone, but she wasn’t sure she could stomach any more company that evening. Just the idea of it made her feel a little nauseous. 

Her footsteps echoed through the hallways ahead of her, and Hermione found herself looking down at her feet, watching the way her robes swished around her legs with every single step. A simple thing to notice, yes, but she often found having something to focus on helped keep her mind on track. Helped keep the panic at bay. 

It was only when she neared the classrooms that Hermione heard it. Voices drifting from somewhere deep through the castle walls. Immediately, she remembered what she’d seen when she stumbled across Pansy and Draco in their respective altercations. She couldn’t hear what the voices were saying, but could she walk away without checking if anyone was being hurt?

Could she live with herself if she left and learned someone was checked into the infirmary the day after?

Hermione swallowed the prickle of fear that settled in her throat and tugged her wand into her grip. Her palms felt clammy against the wood, and she could only hope the sudden heaviness of her tongue was temporary and wouldn’t last should she need to cast a spell. 

As she got closer to the voices, she heard someone bark out a laugh, and she stopped. They weren’t the kinds of sounds that people made when they were in trouble. This was nothing but a group of students taking advantage of an empty castle after nightfall. 

She sighed and turned to leave, but a sudden cry made her miss her step and scramble to keep from hitting the ground. 

“Who’s there?” A girl called, and Hermione grimaced. She knew that voice, even if she’d only heard it up close a few times. Pansy Parkinson wasn’t the kind of person someone easily forgot. “We heard you, so come on out.”

Hermione sighed and turned the corner. The door to one of the classrooms was propped open, and the Head Girl side of her was itching to bark out how against the rules it was to fraternize in class space outside of class hours. She kept her mouth shut. 

Pansy Parkinson was one of four people who sat in the middle of the room, taking up desks and chairs in a small square. The lights of the room were off, but the tip of Theodore Nott’s wand was lit up in a bright white glow that cast shadows over their features. 

Draco Malfoy was sitting on top of one of the desks with his legs propped up on the chairs. Another infraction, Hermione thought to herself. Using school furniture as a footrest was most decidedly against the rules. 

She swallowed as she stood in the doorway, her wand now lowered to her side and her eyes cast down at the floor. “I heard voices.”

“Come to ruin our fun?” Theodore Nott asked, a small tinge of amusement in his voice. “Or would the Head Girl like to join our game instead?”

“Theo,” Pansy grumbled, giving him a sharp look.

He shrugged, “What? Have you forgotten how good of friends Granger and our boy Malfoy are? It’d be rude not to invite her, don’t you think?”

The last part was directed at Malfoy, whose cheek twitched as his jaw locked. Hermione itched to wring her fingers together, but she didn’t. When Malfoy said nothing, a small part of her wanted to die right then and there, it just felt so unbelievably _awkward._

She cleared her throat, “I’ll just leave you to it.”

Hermione started to walk away, silently cursing herself for the trouble, when she heard he echo of footsteps behind her. She spun, and her nose met Malfoy’s chest in a comically graceless smush. 

She bounced back and grimaced, “What are you doing?”

He peered down at her with hard eyes, “Walking you back to your commons.”

She blinked, paused, and stared. “I’m not going back to my commons, and why would you do that?”

Hermione watched him wet his lips, his tongue dancing between his open mouth. “Have you forgotten about the attacks against the Slytherins so quickly? I know I told you not to worry about that note, Granger, but walking around the castle alone and after dark is almost begging for someone to make truth out of the threat.”

She stuttered. “I… I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Of course you hadn’t,” he sighed. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the smart one, Granger.”

Hermione frowned, “Don’t go and get all… all snobbish on me now, Malfoy. You were doing so well.”

“Was I?” He asked, a smile dancing over his face. It was faint, so faint that Hermione could have almost convinced her it was a trick of the shadows, but it was there. “How unfortunate. I’ll have to remember to insult you more.”

She sighed, “Oh, just go back to your game if you’re going to act like a git.”

“A git?” He repeated. “You can do better than that, can’t you?”

“An ogre.” She tried. 

His eyebrow twitched, “Rather subpar, don’t you think?”

“A cockroach,” she said, frustration creeping into her voice.

“Needs some work.”

“A foul, loathsome, evil, little cockroach.” She spat. As soon as the words left her mouth, she huffed out a breath. “Not evil, I suppose. Just foul and loathsome.”

“What about little?” He asked. The look on his face was all Hermione needed to know he was making fun of her, and so she said nothing. She didn’t want to give him any more ammo to use against her. “If you’re not going back to your commons, where are you going?”

She shrugged, “A walk. I didn’t really have a destination in plan.”

“Is there trouble in the Gryffindor headquarters, then? Are mummy and daddy fighting, and you don’t want to go home?” He said mockingly. The tone of his voice was all that kept her from retaliation— he wasn’t trying to be mean. Not really.

How she knew that, she couldn’t be sure. She just did. 

“Have people been…” She paused, searching for the words. “Watching you? As though they’re trying to figure out just what you’re thinking?”

Malfoy blinked, surprised by the question. His hesitation was just long enough that Hermione very nearly told him to forget it, but he cut her off before she could voice the words. “Yes. I suppose they have. Why? Is it bothering you?”

“Is being watched bothering me?” Hermione said, her eyes wide. “Yes, I’d think that should bother just about anyone.”

“I’d have thought you’d be used to it.” Malfoy said, shrugging. “You are the Brightest Witch of Your Age, after all. Doesn’t being looked at come in the job description?”

Hermione swallowed, wondering just how much she could tell Malfoy about herself without it coming back to hurt her. So far, he hadn’t done anything explicitly wrong. He hadn’t gone out of his way to ridicule her as he had in the years before. 

She decided to throw him a rock, and shrugged, “A little, I’m sure. I never liked that very much, either, though.”

Silence stretched between then again, and Hermione felt the weight of Malfoy’s stare as deep as her bones. It was like ice, but it was so intense and so cold that it almost burned. 

After a long while had passed, Malfoy’s shoulders seemed to drop. Hermione could almost see that shift in him, when his posture became a little less rigid and his face a little less squared. As though he’d lowered his defenses against her, at least to some regard. 

He let out a breath, “You’re not at all like the Granger I used to know.”

Hermione looked up at him, her eyes catching on his and her features going blank. At first, she wasn’t sure just what he meant by that, and then all of the sudden, she knew exactly what he meant. 

She smiled softly, “And you’re not at all like the Malfoy I used to know, either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you guys been losing track of days? I feel like whole weeks are going by like in a blink and I’m kind of losing it. Quarantine is definitely not the vibe.
> 
> anyways, sorry for the late update. Nothing to blame that on except me somehow convincing myself two weeks was actually only two days.


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